The Long Afternoon

by Mary L. Farmer

  The Long Afternoon

  Mary L. Farmer

  Copyright 2013 Mary L. Farmer

  Smashwords Edition

  www.marylfarmerwriter.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  The Long Afternoon

  Veronica Harper marched briskly through the airport on her electric blue Louboutin pumps, threading her way efficiently through the crowd with her cell phone clamped to her ear. She had no patience for the other bleary-eyed, Friday morning travellers that plodded toward baggage claim at a glacial pace, and glared at them sideways whenever she was forced to swerve around them.

  “I’m sorry, you’re breaking up a bit, darling, what was that?” she said louder than necessary. “Oh. The reason I’m calling you directly, Stuart, is because I can no longer rely on that vapid agent of mine to get things done.” She glanced up at a sign and turned down another corridor, oblivious to the stares her shrill voice attracted. “What do you mean, ‘what do I mean’? Take this book tour, for instance. Only two cities? What in the blazes is going on with that? A few years ago I used to do more than ten. Ten.”

  Veronica glanced behind her at no one in particular. “Yes, well, in any case, I think it’s high time Sylvia Dodgeson and I parted company. That’s right, Stuart, I’m saying I need a new agent, and…well I’m sure I have no idea. You know everyone, darling, find me someone. Anyone with half a brain. No, no, not Deborah Forrestal! Ugh, that woman’s a complete—” She paused to dodge an electric cart.

  “Well, EXCUSE ME! No Stuart, not you…some idiot in a dreadful polyester sport coat nearly drove over my foot. Now what was I saying? Oh yes—Forrestal’s no good. Why? Let’s just say that when an idea crosses her mind, the journey is lonely and long. Nothing between the ears, darling, if you know what I mean.”

  Veronica continued her tirade of complaints through the rest of the terminal, down two escalators and out a set of sliding glass doors.

  She wheeled her designer suitcase out to the curb, her over-dyed merlot hair bobbling with each stride. “…and furthermore, why must I take a goddamned cab to this signing? What the hell happened to the limousine I had last time?” She approached the nearest idling taxi, yanked open the door, and slid into the back seat.

  “Don’t forget my bag,” she barked to the driver, who obediently got out to secure her luggage in the trunk. He pulled away from the curb and glanced at her expectantly in the rear-view mirror, but Veronica was busy inspecting the glossy finish of her manicured nails for flaws.

  “I know that. I’m working on the next book right now.”

  “Er…Ma’am?” the driver asked.

  “As I told Sylvia, the first draft should be complete by the end of the month.”

  “’Scuse me, but where d’you want to—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Here.” Veronica fished a paper flyer out of her Prada tote bag and flung it over the front seat. “The address is on the bottom.”

  The driver flicked her an irritated look in the mirror but Veronica took no notice. “Of course my sales are down. That’s because your marketing department really let things slip after the launch for Romance at Ground Zero. What do you mean, I’m not doing my share of the PR? What ‘platform’? I should be what? Tweeting? Oh, please. I’m a professional writer, Stuart, I don’t have time for such juvenile nonsense…” She rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll Tweet. But I don’t think…what time is it here? No, I’m not running late, I’m…alright I am a bit late. Hopefully this cabbie knows where he’s going.”

  The taxi driver left the airport and turned onto a busy avenue. He glanced over his shoulder and changed lanes, but delivery truck in the far lane had the same idea. It cut them off, forcing him to stomp on the brakes.

  Veronica braced herself against the back of the headrest as her tote bag flew off the seat. “My God, must everyone try to kill me today?!”

  “Sorry,” the driver said over his shoulder.

  Veronica reached down to retrieve her bag and all its contents, which had spilled onto the floor of the cab. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?!” she snapped.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the cabbie replied darkly.

  He continued to make his way through the late morning traffic as Veronica beleaguered her publisher, unaware of the changing neighborhoods. In a few short miles, windows framed by wooden trellises and colorful flowerboxes became windows framed by iron bars and colorful graffiti.

  The taxi eventually slowed in front of a long, two-story brick building that housed several storefronts. The driver jerked to the curb and hit a button on the meter.

  “Twenty-nine fifty.”

  “I realize the market is changing, Stuart, but I…I…” For the first time since she’d stepped off the plane, Veronica fell silent. “No, this isn’t right. You were supposed to go to the Victory Bookstore on…” She pulled another flyer from her bag. “Peter Street. 4525 South Peter Street.”

  “This is 4525 South Peter, lady,” the driver said as he popped the trunk. Getting out, he walked to the back of the cab and unceremoniously heaved her suitcase onto the curb.

  “Er, yes, I’ve arrived, Stuart.” Veronica squinted at the store window, trying to peer inside. “Only I’m not sure this is…wait, there’s Sarah. I’ll call you later.” She dropped the phone inside her tote bag and maneuvered out of the taxi, her nose wrinkling in disdain at the run-down building. A sign on the corner read Thy Neighbor’s Books, and there was no mistake about the large numbers painted on the front door: 4525.

  “Wait here,” she ordered the driver, shoving thirty dollars into his hand. “I still think there’s been some kind of mix-up.”

  The cabbie scowled and shoved the money in his pocket. “Yeah. Sure, lady.”

  He got into his cab and drove off.

  Veronica stood gaping at the receding taxi for a moment, then tramped up to the door in a fury, her suitcase bumping over the broken sidewalk behind her.

  The store’s interior was a chaotic jumble of second-hand books, used DVDs and castoff Nixon-era office furniture. The pasty-faced clerk lurking behind the cash register stared trance-like at his clunky computer monitor, failing to even acknowledge her as she came to stand in front of the counter.

  “Hello?” she said testily.

  The motionless young man gave no indication he’d heard a thing.

  Veronica leaned over and drummed her nails on the counter. “H-E-L-L-O? Excuse me?”

  The clerk looked up slowly, his slack-jawed expression unchanged.

  “I’m Veronica Harper…I’m here to do a book signing?”

  “Oh. Hey.” He jerked his head toward a rusty card table in the corner of the store. “Back there.”

  Behind the table, her personal assistant, Sarah, was pacing back and forth, talking on her cell. A handful of people milled around nearby, clutching copies of Veronica’s previous books.

  Veronica reluctantly headed over to the table and sat down on an ancient desk chair with torn upholstery. One of the wheels emitted an ear-piercing squeak as she bent to set her tote bag on the floor.

  “This is completely unacceptable. Sylvia’s really done it this time,” she muttered, eyeing the shelves stuffed with worn paperbacks. To Veronica’s dismay, an overeager, middle-aged woman in a puffy jacket immediately scurried over to the table.

&
nbsp; “Oh, Ms. Harper,” she gushed, “it’s really great to meet you. I’m such a huge fan!” She held out a ragged copy of Veronica’s third novel, Love in the Operating Room. Veronica took the paperback, hastily scribbled inside the cover, and thrust it back at the woman.

  “Here you are.”

  “Oh, thank you so much! May I take your picture?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t just now,” Veronica grumbled, searching around her chair and under the table. Where were all the copies of her new novel?

  “Er…okay. Thanks,” the woman said. Her shoulders drooped as she walked away.

  Veronica autographed several other books in between frowning at Sarah, who continued to pace along the side of the store. The second she was off the phone, Veronica pounced on her anxious-looking assistant.

  “Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on, Sarah? This is a used bookstore. Used. I’m supposed to be promoting my new book.”

  “I know,” Sarah said.

  “So what are we doing here?” Veronica hissed. “This place is like a Bronx yard sale minus the grass.”

  “I know,” Sarah said again. “I just got off the phone with Jackie at Tamarind Publishing. She, um, she said to tell you that they’re really sorry about the typo.”

  Veronica narrowed her deep blue eyes. “What typo?”

  Sarah drew a deep breath. “Apparently, the email advert for the book signing went out with a mistake in the address. Someone put an ‘S’ instead of an ‘N’ in front of ‘Peter’.”

  “Brilliant,” Veronica said. “Bloody brilliant. Remind me to strangle those idiots when we get back to New York.

  Sarah’s eyebrows pulled together. “She said Victory Books is actually located at the other end of town, at 4525 North Peter Street. But there also happens to be a bookstore here at 4525 South Peter Street, too. Isn’t that weird?”

  “Oh, yes. The irony is astounding. Now let’s get out of here before a horde of roaches crawl out of this chair and take up residence in my tote bag.”

  After another ten minutes of venting her frustrations to her assistant, Veronica finally agreed to stay and greet the slow trickle of misdirected fans before calling a cab to go uptown.

  ###

  A half-hour later, the store was empty.

  “I think we’re done here,” said Sarah said.

  “Oh, thank God.” Veronica grabbed her bag and stood up. “Well, let’s get going. If we can make it up to Victory Books in time for the two o’clock reading, I’ll still have time to sign books afterward.”

  As if on cue, a leathery-faced woman in a shabby gray coat and dark sunglasses appeared in the store and started waving frantically at them.

  “Hold on!” she called hoarsely, shuffling toward the card table. “I’ve got one more for you, dearie.”

  Veronica sat back down. “Get a load of this one,” she said to Sarah as the woman ambled slowly through the store. A large helium balloon trailed behind her, its shiny green surface clashing fiercely with her red crocheted hat.

  “Bear with me, Ms. Harper,” the woman said, grinning. Veronica could see she was missing several teeth. “The old hip is aching somethin’ fierce.”

  “Take your time,” Veronica said blandly, then rolled her eyes as the woman stood in front of the table, rummaging around in her voluminous coat pocket for what seemed an eternity.

  “Ah, here we are,” the woman said at last. To Veronica’s surprise, she produced a pristine copy of her latest hardcover novel and slid it across the table.

  “Where did you get—oh, never mind.” Veronica bent to sign the woman’s book. “Would you like me to make it out to anyone in particular?” she asked, smiling pleasantly.

  The woman thought for a moment. “Yes. Make it out to Ursula.”

  The clerk at the front counter jerked his head up and started shouting across the store. “Ursula?! Oh no, you can’t be in here. You need to leave!” The young man hurried over and grabbed the woman roughly by the arm. “Come on, right now, or I’m calling the police!”

  “Just a moment,” the woman rasped. She turned back to the table and held the balloon out for Veronica. “This is for you, dearie.”

  “Er…thank you.”

  Veronica was about to take it when the woman pulled out a pin and popped it in the author’s face. A cloud of green powder rained down onto Veronica’s carefully-coiffed hair and settled on the shoulders of her Valentino jacket.

  “Oh my God! What the HELL are you doing?!” she gasped, flailing her arms and trying to beat away the dusty fog. As the particles settled into her cleavage, her skin began to tingle and then burn. Sarah rushed forward and tried to brush the powder off Veronica’s shoulders, but it clung stubbornly to the finely woven tweed.

  “Don’t! You’re making it worse!” Veronica said, slapping her arm away.

  The woman slipped the signed book into her pocket and patted it with a moth-eaten glove.

  “Okay, you’ve got your book. Come on now, out!” The clerk hustled Ursula away from the table.

  She turned and waved to Veronica before the clerk shoved her out the door. “Goodbye, Ms. Harper,” Ursula called through the window.

  Veronica gaped as the clerk nonchalantly plopped back down in front of his computer as if he’d just returned from emptying the wastebasket.

  “Who the hell was that?!” she shrieked.

  “Oh, sorry about her,” the clerk said, barely glancing up. “She’s a troublemaker, that one.” He wiped his nose on a crumpled tissue and resumed staring at his computer.

  Sarah blinked hard. “Okay, that was so weird. Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not all right!” Veronica snapped, swiping at the sleeves of her jacket. “As soon as I can get cleaned up we’re leaving.”

  She snatched her tote bag off the card table. Stomping over to the clerk, Veronica pounded a manicured fist on top of the clerk’s wobbly monitor.

  “Wake up, you moron!”

  He flinched.

  “WELL?” Veronica demanded, pointing at her soiled suit. “Where’s the restroom in this dump?!”

  The clerk jumped up and backed away from her until he collided with a bookrack. “Out that side door over there, through the mall,” he said, grabbing at the books that tumbled down around him.

  Veronica stormed past the clerk and out the mall entrance.

  She found herself in a small indoor shopping arcade. The air was cool and damp, a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the bookstore. A custodian in blue coveralls emptied a trashcan across the corridor. Veronica leaned against a wall, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and began flicking her lighter.

  “There’s no smoking in the mall,” the custodian said.

  “Of course not,” Veronica grumbled, jamming the pack back into her bag. “Where can I find the Ladies Room?”

  “Down this hall, turn left, and go down the stairs. The door on the right,” the man said in a monotone voice.

  Veronica marched toward the stairway, the sound of her heels echoing off the dirty skylights overhead. She wiped the bitter-tasting powder from her lips with the back of her hand. If I have some kind of bad reaction from this, she vowed to herself, I’m suing somebody!

  She came to an old wrought-iron staircase in the back of the arcade leading up to a narrow balcony. Around the corner was another set of stairs that led down. Skittering down the steps, she opened the door marked ‘LADIES’, and went in.

  ###

  “Great. Now where do I go?” Veronica muttered.

  She was standing in a long corridor lit by a single bare bulb. At the very end was a door marked BOILER ROOM that stood slightly ajar. Compared to the coolness of the shopping arcade, the heat in the basement was oppressive. A fine sheen of sweat started to form on her brow. Suddenly apprehensive, Veronica bit her lip and briefly thought about turning around and going back to the bookstore.

  “Hello?” she called nervously. “Is anyone down here?”

  Veronica hea
rd only a low, mechanical rumbling sound in reply. She cursed under her breath. In addition to desperately wanting to rinse the bad taste from her mouth, Veronica suddenly realized that she also had to go to the bathroom. She took a deep breath.

  It’s only a musty basement in a old building, she told herself, there’s nothing to fear.

  She crept along the dim corridor, twisting each doorknob she passed, but they were all locked. Finally, she came to a skinny wooden door near the boiler room that she assumed was a broom closet. Upon closer inspection, she saw that someone had scratched the words LADIES TOILET into the faded pink paint.

  “Naturally this would be the bathroom,” Veronica snorted. She turned the door handle and it opened. Squeezing through the narrow doorway into the darkness, she felt around for a light switch.

  Fluorescent lighting overhead blinked on automatically, startling her.

  The windowless restroom smelled strongly of disinfectant, but looked functional enough. Veronica set her bag on the counter and crouched into a stall, doing her best to ignore the clanks and groans emitted by the rusty radiator in the corner. She cast a sour look at the pink subway tiles covering the walls. Ugh, this entire place could use a makeover. After she finished she pulled the chain on the antique toilet tank to flush it, hurrying out of the stall in case the thing decided to overflow.

  Just then, Veronica’s phone chimed with a text message. She fished it out of her tote bag to check the screen. It was from Sarah:

  CALLED A CAB. IT’S WAITING OUTSIDE. YOU OKAY?

  Veronica was about to send a reply, but scowled and tossed the phone back in her bag. The damned cab can wait. She removed her jacket. After it was cleaned it to her satisfaction, she leaned toward the small circular mirror above the dripping sink, turning her head to the side to pick sticky green clumps out of her hair.

  Suddenly, her stomach lurched and she tasted an unpleasant sourness. Panic rose within her. Oh dear God, what was in that balloon?

  Then her stomach twisted again, this time more forcefully.

  “Ohhh.” Veronica grabbed the edge of the sink, completely overcome with nausea. She ran back to the stall and heaved her breakfast into the toilet. Straightening, she turned to walk back to the sink. A moment later another spasm racked her insides and she found herself leaning over the bowl again.